O Rose Thou Art Sick
by armageddon-incarnate
Summary: [postRENT, slightly AU] Mark is sick, and the Bohemiens are worried...
1. Chapter One

O Rose Thou Art Sick

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own anything that is the genius Jonathon Larson's property. Credit also goes to Mr. William Blake for the title (from his poem the Sick Rose,) and Emily Dickinson (chapter title).

In Memoriam: To Mr. Larson. May your genius continue to inspire millions.

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Chapter One: Because I could not stop for Death-

_Because I could not stop for Death-_

_He kindly stopped for me-_

_-Emily Dickinson

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_

Mark first noticed the cough a year after Roger's death. It wasn't much of a shock. After all, disease was rampant here in Alphabet City. Coughs could be heard all over. Mark simply coughed, then coughed again and again, stopped coughing, and thought nothing of it.

It wasn't until that day at the cemetery, when he'd actually had to sit down, driven to the ground by the ferociousness of his dry, hacking cough, that he even though he might really be sick. But he pushed the thought out of his mind, got up slowly, muttered a short 'good-bye' to Roger, Mimi, and Angel's bodies, their tombstones, and went on back to the empty loft.

What with three of the Bohemians dead, Collins teaching at Berkley, Maureen in Chicago on tour with her protest performance, and Joanne in Washington D.C. working as a lawyer, Mark was very much alone. Any hope at Benny's redemption after Angel's death had been lost after Mimi was gone. The power was turned on periodically, had been on for a while when Roger had been ill, when he had been dying, but now it was more often off. Not that Mark much cared. Mark didn't much care about anything these days.

What was the point in caring? If there was anything Mark had learned from his friends, it was that only one thing could be counted on in life, and that was imminent death. Not that you might not achieve all your goals before you died, not that you may or may not be surrounded by friends and family at the final moment of truth, but that, at some point in your life, through some means, you were going to die. Every day, Mark looked out the window and said his mantra, one of few consistencies in his life: "It might be today."

It might be today. Who knew? Mark certainly didn't, coughing as he hurried to his destination. He had taken to just going into bars, selecting a few people at random, and taping them all night, to see how they reacted to situations, to see how they lived a normal life.

Mark coughed as he sat at a table; it was so smoky in this damn bar! He stopped coughing for a moment, trying to focus on the young man who looked a bit like Roger. His hands were a little shaky from the strain of all his coughing, and he gripped the camera fiercely, trying to steady them. Then, it started again.

Mark coughed and coughed, again and again. He couldn't stop, couldn't catch his breath, just kept coughing and coughing.

Cough. Cough. Mark could feel his face getting red from lack of oxygen as the dry, hacking sound of his cough filled the air. Shit. People were starting to notice. Panicking a little, Mark got up quickly and hurried out of the bar, finding refuge in a nearby dark alley. There, he leaned up against a cold brick wall, his cough becoming lost in the noises of the city. He coughed and coughed. His vision was getting blurry, he needed air…

Mark put a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the cough. A wet piece of phlegm flew up against it, and became stuck to his hand. Then, the cough stopped.

Instantaneous relief flooded Mark's body, sending him to his knees, the fresh air blinding him. He panted shallowly, trying to get oxygen to his brain.

Mark, finally able to breathe, went back out onto the sidewalk. For some unfathomable reason, instead of simply wiping it on his pants, he looked at his hand.

"Oh shit," he said.

On his hand lay a wad of green, sticky phlegm. And in the phlegm, there was a streak of red.

Blood.

Mark's blood.

Oh shit was right.

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A/n: What did you think? If you didn't like this chapter, stay for the next; something will happen in it. Please review! Constructive criticism is heartily accepted. 


	2. Chapter Two

O Rose Thou Art Sick

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own anything that rightfully belongs to the genius Jonathon Larson. Credit also goes to go William Blake for the title, from his poem, the Sick Rose, and to Pablo Neruda for the chapter title, from his poem, Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines.

Chapter Two: Tonight I can write the saddest lines

_Tonight I can write the saddest lines. _

_Write, for example, "The night is shattered,_

_and the blue stars shiver in the distance,"_

_-Pablo Neruda_

"Mark?" Roger called. Christ, the apartment was freezing! Roger glanced at the phone, considering calling Benny to complain. He didn't. He knew the former Bohemian-turned-landlord tried hard to keep the building running, but the utilities, such as heating and electricity, often broke down. Benny tired to get the building fixed up, but it was difficult, considering his boss and father-in-law still seemed to think Benny intended to turn Tent City into a studio, and therefore paid no attention to Benny's mission of having the building fixed. Still, Benny helped however he could, bringing the Bohemians blankets to keep warm. In fact, the blanket that hung limply around Roger's shoulders belonged to the landlord; it smelled slightly musty, as if it had been pulled from the back of a closet. But it had no major holes in it, and it was warm. At this point, Roget would take what he could get.

"Mark?" he called again, confused. He had slept most of the day, and now it was two o'clock in the morning. Mark should have been at home; the pasty white Jewish boy was so easy to mug, it scared Roger. Especially at the beginning of their friendship, he worried all the time about the filmmaker. Now he knew Mark could pretty much take care of himself, but that didn't stop him from worrying.

Besides, when Roger had gone to bed at nine in the afternoon, Mark had said he'd be back at the Loft by twelve, at the latest. That was two hours ago. Mark, if anything, was always on time to be with Roger, to tell him to take his AZT, to yell at him for continuously playing 'Musetta's Waltz' on his guitar. He was always there.

Of course, there was the possibility that he had simply forgot, something Mark often did when he was out filming. Or, on the other hand, it could have just been Roger trying not to freak out…

A thought crossed Roger's mind. Quickly, he got up and hurried across the Loft to Mark's bedroom. He carefully opened the door, in case Mark was sleeping.

Mark wasn't there. The bed, although messy, was empty. The camera was also gone. 'He's just out filming,' Roger tried to reassure himself. It did him no good. Mark had been missing for nearly three hours. Nothing in Roger's mind could rightly justify that.

Roger ran a hand through his hair. If Mark was conscious, or could get to a phone, he would have called to tell Roger he was going to be late, and to tell Roger to take his AZT.

Then there was the fact that Mark hadn't been feeling well recently. This troubled Roger further; he was worried about Mark. The obvious role-reversal had to make Roger chuckle a little bit, if a bit unwillingly. He wondered if Mark felt this sickening worry all the time, about him He hoped not.

Roger grabbed the abandoned blanket and sat on the tattered couch, making a silent promise to himself: if Mark wasn't back by four, he'd call somebody. Maybe they would know something.

Roger sat back, waiting for the return of his best friend.

A/n: I told you it would get a little confusing. Then again, I don't write confusing stuff very well, so you're probably not confused. Please review. Constructive criticism is heartily accepted.


	3. Chapter Three

O Rose Thou Art Sick

A/n: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, especially Princess of Mirrors, who was not in anyway afraid to tell me what she thought, and tell me what I needed to work on. Thank you.

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT; Jonathon Larson does. I don't own the poem, The Sick Rose; William Blake does. I don't own the poem, Because I could not stop for Death, that is part of the chapter title; Emily Dickinson does.

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Chapter Three: The Carriage Held but Ourselves

_The Carriage Held but Ourselves-_

_And Immortality_

Nearly two weeks had passed since Mark had first coughed up blood; since then he had barely had more than an hour's time uninterrupted by coughs. His mind was often cloudy, and he felt befuddled, kind of like his mind had been slathered in tar.

Often at night, he would feverishly fret about something; had he locked the door? Had Roger taken his AZT? Did Collins still have the key? Mark couldn't rest until he knew, until he had been reassured.

These frets, these small worries, were costing Mark his sleep, something he needed desperately. Only two weeks after the night he had coughed up blood, he was paler than usual, with large bags under his eyes. Often, to stave of the gut-wrenching fears that wouldn't let him sleep, he would go out into the freezing night and film. Parks, bars, the sidewalk, anywhere. He knew he wasn't going to sleep anyway.

Not only was he not sleeping, he wouldn't eat much, either. Sometimes it was dry toast and a cup of coffee all day; he couldn't keep anything else down. He knew he was sick, but he didn't want to go to the clinic, didn't want to get help- what was the point? He was going to die anyway.

As a result of everything, Mark was very pale and thin, with dark circles around his eyes. He didn't look at all healthy, nor did he feel healthy, but each day he got up to film. He was always filming these days. The homeless, the city, trash; whatever caught his eye. He didn't like it, but every day he did it, for Angel and Mimi and Roger; they would have wanted him to. Mark filmed. He filmed life for the dead.

One late night, after Mark had finished filming, he was on his bike riding home when the coughing started.

It wracked his weak body, left him gasping for air. He pulled into an alley to wait the coughing attack out. Leaning over the handlebars, he coughed and coughed, wheezed a little, trying to take a deep breath, then coughed again. His mind was churning, he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe. He distantly felt his vision getting blurry, and he tried to bite his lip to stop himself from passing out, but the coughs prevented him from doing that. He couldn't breathe.

The coughs were slightly raspy, but he felt the phlegm detaching itself, and he unsteadily put a hand to his mouth, waiting for it to come. Unfortunately, this happened at the exact moment the coughs became more violent, making his legs weak, sending him crumpling over the handlebars. There he stayed for a split second, until the sudden weight sent the bike, and Mark, flying forward.

Mark landed on his back, and the bike landed partly on top of him. Still he coughed. He couldn't breathe, he was sure his face was purple from lack of oxygen, he was suffocating, dying. He was dying. Mark was dying.

His vision went black, and Mark lay unconscious on the cold, damp ground in the dark alley. In his open hand was a bit of phlegm, and a lot of blood.

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A/n: So… yeah. It's really confusing, I know, so please bear with me. Oh, and please review. I know people are reading this, it has a couple of hundred hits, so please leave me a review and tell me what you think; constructive criticism is heartily accepted; I promise I won't do the stupid thing that others do and flame a story just because you have me constructive criticism. Thanks for reading. 


	4. Chapter Four

O Rose Thou Art Sick

A/n: Yeah, so… I understand that this is incredibly confusing, but I know for a fact that a lot of people are reading this, and that encourages me. Please review; if you flame, I will not flame you back, but I can't promise that my review reply will be nice. Constructive criticism is truly accepted; I will take it into consideration, and I promise that eventually the chapters will get longer. This one is really short, so I should get to it.

Disclaimer: I do not own RENT; Jonathon Larson does. I do not own the poem O Rose Thou Art Sick; William Blake does. I do not own the poem Tonight I can write the saddest lines; Pablo Neruda does.

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Chapter Four: The Night Wind Revolves in the Sky and Sings

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. 

_Tonight I can write the saddest lines._

_I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too._

_Pablo Neruda

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_

Roger awoke with a start. He had fallen asleep waiting for Mark.

Roger rolled over a little on the couch, then checked his cheap digital watch, a gift from Mimi for his birthday. 5:07, the glowing numbers told him. Shit. He'd overslept.

He got up, and hurried to Mark's room to make sure the filmmaker hadn't come home and wasn't asleep in his bed. He hadn't, and he wasn't.

Shit. Roger went into the cold room and sat on Mark's saggy mattress. Where could he be?

Roger put his head in his hands. The filmmaker's dreams about Angel had increased recently. Often Roger, awakened by his own dreams about April and Mimi, would find Mark awake but staring into space, or asleep, calling Angel's name. Once he'd even found the filmmaker sleepwalking, holding a conversation with Angel, taking pauses in talking to listen to the dead drag queen's responses. It had frightened Roger to see the normally lucid and well grounded Mark talking to no one as if he were insane. Even worse, though, had been the night Roger had awoken a thrashing Mark, only to have the filmmaker gasp at him, "R… Roger? Roger? H… how? You're dead…" before fully coming back to his senses.

Roger sighed. Mark was definitely sick. If he was sick and alone on the streets, possibly hurt, Roger was going to need to find him, and help him. After all, the filmmaker had done the same thing for Roger when the musician had been going through withdrawal. It was the same here; only now, the roles were reversed, and Roger had a chance to repay his debt.

Resolutely, Roger picked up the phone to call everyone he knew to see if they'd seen Mark.

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A/n: Told you it was short. Sorry. By the end, they get longer, I swear. Please review. I really, not kidding, want feedback. I swear I don't flame your story if you flame mine. 


	5. Chapter Five

O Rose Thou Art Sick

A/n: Yes, another chapter. People finally seem to be getting this, which is good, so hopefully that means more reviews, and more looking at the writing, which means more constructive criticism! Yay! Once again, I don't flame if you don't give me a wholly positive review, or even if you flame, but I won't be nice in my review reply if you do. Bite me in a review, I bite back in a review reply. Try it. Or just tell me what you think!

Disclaimer: I do not own RENT; Jonathon Larson does. I do not own the poem The Sick Rose; William Blake does. I do not own the poem Because I Could Not Stop for Death; Emily Dickinson does.

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Chapter Five: We Slowly Drove- He Knew No Haste

_We slowly drove- He knew no haste_

_And I had put away_

_-Emily Dickinson

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_

Mark could feel cold, hard mattress beneath him. He groaned slightly; something heavy was laying on him, and the Loft was cold, so cold. Mark felt woozy, his mind cloudy. He needed a good, strong cup of coffee, assuming Roger was already up and Benny had turned the power on. Benny. Roger. Roger. Mark wondered if the musician had taken his AZT.

"Roger?" the filmmaker called, his eyes still closed. He got no response. "Rog?" He opened one eye, then two, and raised his head a little. "Roger?" Then it all came flooding back to him.

The cough. His bike. Roger, Mimi, Angel, all dead. All dead, and Mark was alone in a dark alley, all alone. All alone but for his camera. His camera.

Shit. His camera. His camera. He struggled to sit up, wiping the slimy stuff from his hand before looking around frantically for his camera. There was something cold and metal beneath his left leg. Fearing the worst, Mark shifted his leg slowly, so terrified he felt sick to his stomach with worry. Taking a deep breath and squeezing his eyes shut, the filmmaker pulled his camera out from beneath his left, then brought it up to his face.

He let out a choking gasp as he opened his eyes. It wasn't broken. The camera wasn't broken. In fact, apart from a few scratches, it was fine. Mark let out one ragged breath, then two, tears springing to his eyes. It wasn't broken. It was fine. He let out a small sob, pressing the cold camera to his chest as he slowly rocked back and forth. It was fine, the camera was fine. He could continue his quest of documenting life for the dead. Angel, Mimi and Roger would still be connected to him. The camera wasn't broken.

Mark continued to cry, tears of relief and joy dripping down his face, the gentle sobs punctuated by short gasps of air. Then, out of nowhere, the coughing started again.

Cough, cough. They wracked his body, these coughs, left him reeling as another bout came. Mark gripped his camera rightly, pressing cold, hard metal painfully into the soft flesh of his hands. He had to see the one out, he wasn't going to faint again. Mark focused on getting more air, focused on trying to breathe normally. In. Out. In. Out. In, out. Again and again, over and over, until the coughing fit passed and he could breathe again.

Shakily, Mark got to his feet. He needed to be home. Or, he corrected himself, he needed to be back at the Loft. It was hardly home, no one lived there. None of his family, his Bohemian family, lived there anymore. It was empty and only served as a reinforcement to the fact that Mark was honestly, completely and utterly alone. He was all alone. He had no home. The closest thing to a home he had was where Angel, Mimi, and Roger were. Home was the plot next to Roger, where Mark intended to be buried. Home was being with his friends again. Home was the graveyard, and whatever, if anything, lay beyond.

Mark got on his bike and began to pedal towards home.

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A/n: So… did you like it? Again, short, but the longer chapters don't start until the endish bit. Sorry. Please review. Constructive criticism is heartily accepted. And when I say heartily, I mean with great excitement and happiness. Thank you so much for sticking with the story, even when it got confusing. Thanks! 


	6. Chapter Six

O Rose Thou Art Sick

A/n: Sorry for the really slow update. I've been extremely busy. Finally, the plot moves forward! How, you will have to read on and see. And, whee, actual dialogue! Review, please. Constructive criticism is heartily and warmly accepted.

Disclaimer: I do not own the musical RENT. Jon Larson does. I do not own the poem The Sick Rose. William Blake does. I do not own the poem Tonight I Can Read the Saddest Lines. Pablo Neruda does.

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Chapter Six: Through Nights Like This One

_Through nights like this one I held her in my arms._

_I kissed her again and again under the endless sky_

* * *

Roger sighed wearily, his head in his hands. Mimi sat next to him on the tattered couch, her arm around his shoulders comfortingly. Collins stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed, and Maureen paced anxiously. Finally, she threw up her hands.

"Where is he?" she demanded. "I mean, Mark was his roommate, for, like, forever! And, he has a car… can't he get here to help look for a friend?"

"He's busy," Joanne, who was standing at the counter, said. "He's got a job."

"So do you, Pookie," replied Maureen smartly. "But you some how managed to make it."

"Benny's in a tighter squeeze than I am- corporate America is holding his leash pretty tightly," Joanne reminded her on-again, off-again partner.

"Heehee, Benny on a leash!" Mimi giggled.

"Good metaphor," Collins said, his face screwing up into a grin.

"What?" asked Benny, walking into the Loft.

"Nothing, nothing," the others reassured him.

"Okay…" Benny paused for a minute, his eyebrow raised before clearing his throat and continuing. "I looked for Mark all over."

"And?" Roger asked, raising his head a little.

"Nothing." Benny shook his head.

"Damn, damn, damn, damn, FUCK!" Roger shouted before hitting the couch with his fist and going back to his previous position of hunched over despair and anger.

"Roger," Mimi said, sadness and worry etched into her face.

"He couldn't have gone far," Maureen offered, trying to look on the bright side.

"Yes he could have," replied Roger bitterly. "His bike's gone."

"Well, let's start out simple. Roger," Collins said calmly. "When was the last time you heard from Mark?"

"Nine o'clock, p.m. He said he'd be out filming, and that he'd be back at midnight. I didn't hear from him again."

"Okay, we've got a sighting at 9 p.m. Anyone else hear or see him?"

"No," said Maureen. "I was supposed to come help me with my equipment at six, but he didn't show, and then you called, and…" she shrugged.

"Anyone else?" Collins asked.

"He knocked on my door before he left," said Mimi. "He said he was going out, and that Roger was upstairs if I needed anything, and to take my AZT." Mimi smiled a little.

"Okay, so… last we saw him, it was a little after nine o'clock. His bike's gone, so's his camera. We're assuming he didn't come home in between the time he left, and the time Roger woke up?"

"I was up at eleven," Mimi said. "That leaves four hours when he could have come back."

"I don't think he did," said Roger. "I probably would have noticed."

"Okay." Collins nodded a few times. "Here's the plan. Mimi, Maureen, stay here. Rog, you and I are gonna search the streets. We're gonna assumed he's hurt, maybe mugged. Roger, you said he's been sick?"

"Yeah," Roger nodded, looking more alert now that they had a plan of action. "He'd been coughing a lot."

"Okay, so he's sick and probably hurt. If you find him, come back here and wait for the rest of us. Joanne, can you search the hospitals? And Benny, check the police stations, just in case. Now, what time is it?"

"Nine," Roger said, checking his watch.

"Okay. We'll all meet back here at twelve. Got it?"

Everyone nodded before getting up to go find their friend.

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A/n: So… yeah. Please review. There's this quote buzzing around in my head I'm just gonna throw out there; it's from The Princess Bride, one of the greatest movies in the world. Here goes: "We are men of action; lies do not become us." Yep. That's the random quote of the day. 


	7. Chapter Seven

O Rose Thou Art Sick

A/n: Again, I apologize for the slow updates. I really will be updating sooner, I swear. I've just been incredibly busy writing new things, and this has fallen behind. Sorry!

Disclaimer: I do not own RENT; Jonathan Larson does. I do not own the poem The Sick Rose; William Blake does. I do not own the poem Because I Could Not Stop for Death; Emily Dickinson does.

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Chapter Seven: My Labor and My Leisure too

_My labor and my leisure too,_

_For His Civility-_

* * *

Mark pedaled unsteadily on his bike, nearly getting hit by cars several times. He felt extremely ill, and there was a tight pain in his chest that increased whenever he took a breath. He felt dizzy, and weak; the pumping motion of his legs had become pure reflex as his mind, deadened by something in Mark's body, began to wander.

Suddenly, in front of him there was Collins, but he disappeared just as suddenly. Mark shook his head, trying to focus; he was riding in the street, dodging cars! He needed to remain alert. But as bright cars zipped past, he thought of Angel.

Angel was bright.

Had been bright. She was dead now. But she had been bright, colorful, fun, loving, caring, alive. Angel Had been alive. She had been alive.

So had Roger. So had Mimi. They all had been alive, but now they were dead, and Mark was alone.

Mark was dead, too.

Not physically. Physically, he was young, with a perfectly healthy body.

Except for the cough, he was reminded.

Yes, in terms of body, Mark was alive.

But inside, he was dead.

Dead. Mark and Roger had once had a conversation about what it would feel like to be dead. Roger had said it would be like the worst case of boredom ever. Mark has said it would be like being utterly alone.

Mark was alone.

Mark was dead.

And yet, he kept going, kept waking up each day to live. Because he knew he couldn't die. Couldn't, because if he did, they would be forgotten. The dead would be forgotten. And they would drift away. And Mark could not let that happen, would not let that happen.

Mark lived for the memory of the dead.

Screech. A car stopping suddenly. Mark, coming out of his thoughts, narrowly missed being hit. But he couldn't stop. Hoping it wouldn't be too painful, Mark braced for impact.

The wheels of his bike smashed into the curb, and Mark toppled off, scraping his hands. Nothing happened to the camera. Mark wasn't sure if he believed in guardian angels, but he was sure someone was watching after his camera.

He got up, the pulsing pain of his skinned palms keeping him in reality.

Fact: He was Mark Cohen.

Fact: He was a filmmaker.

Fact: He was going to visit his friends.

Fact: He was alive.

Fact: He was alone.

Being careful, Mark got back on his bike and began to ride. He gripped the handlebars tightly, the sharp pain in his hands keeping his mind focused.

He arrived at the graveyard and began to walk, keeping the bike with him. He wasn't sure how it looked, this singular man in a graveyard, with a bike and a camera for company. But his friends were here, and he was, for a brief period of time, not alone.

Here, Mark was not alone.

He found them easily, three graves lined up nicely; the first read 'Angel Dumontt-Schunard'. The second said 'Mimi Marquez', and the third, 'Roger Davis'. Three names carved in cold, hard stone, names that filled Mark with so much warmth and light. Friends, his friends. He stood in front of the three graves, basking in the warmth even as the freezing wind whipped down and ruffled his hair.

Friends, his friends. His friends were there. Mark was there. His friends were cold, but they filled Mark with so much warmth. Warmth and love and life.

Life.

Mark was alive.

He was alive, but his friends were in the ground, dead. He was alive, they were dead, and he was alone.

He was alive, they were dead, he was alone, and yet, standing in that graveyard, he felt more comfort than he had in a long.

Mark Cohen was comforted.

Mark Cohen was home.

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A/n: Did you like it? I hope so… Please review and tell me what you thought! It's you guys that keep me writing! 


	8. Chapter Eight

O Rose Thou Art Sick

A/n: Once again, sorry for the slow updates. I thought about it often, but I've been in a bit of a writing slump recently, and/or writing for fandoms that basically no one reads, so this had been tossed aside for a bit. Also? Sorry for the shortness of the chapter. They get longer, I swear!

Disclaimer: I do not own RENT; Jonathan Larson does. I do not own the poem The Sick Rose; William Blake. I do not own the poem Tonight I Can Read the Saddest Lines; Pablo Neruda does.

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Chapter Eight: She loved me, sometimes I loved her too

…_She loved me, sometimes I loved her too._

_How could one not have loved her great still eyes. …_

_-Tonight I Can Read the Saddest Lines, Pablo Neruda_

* * *

Mimi sat opposite Maureen, her big brown eyes staring off into the distance, not focusing on anything. Trying to get her to focus, Maureen moved her head strangely, but it did no good. Mimi didn't even blink. The drama queen sighed. Even though she knew the dancer was clean, it made Maureen wonder if doing smack as much as Mimi had done did something to your brain. She wondered if you 'experimented' enough, would it happen to you?

Then again, Mark had often gotten the same sort of glaze in his eyes as Mimi had now.

Mark…

Maureen bit her lip nervously, suddenly remembering why she was sitting alone with Mimi in the Loft. Mark. Her Mark was out in the bitter cold, all alone, probably hurt and bleeding on the street.

Nervously, Maureen checked the cheap plastic watch that had come in the cereal box. It said 11:15. Maureen bit her lip again. Mark had been gone for over 14 hours. Could he be bleeding? Could he be injured? Could he be dead?

Dead. Maureen shivered nervously. If Mark was dead, there was no hope for the rest of them. If the one to survive died, the family died. If Mark died, Maureen died.

God, she loved him so much. It was a realization she had made before, but the emotional impact was far stronger now. She loved him. She loved him to pieces. He was her older brother, so wise yet such a dork. And she loved him for it.

And he didn't know it. Not to the full extent, anyway.

He didn't know, and he could be dead. God. If he was dead, had died and never known… Maureen knew she'd feel guilty her whole life. And she hated feeling guilty.

'Come through the door, Mark,' she thought at him. 'Right now. Come through the door and let it be one big mistake.'

But he didn't, and the cold feeling in the pit of Maureen's stomach grew and twisted.

He could be dead.

She could be dead.

They could all be dead.

Maureen hugged herself tightly, and wished her hardest that they would find him.

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A/n: So… yeah. Sorry it was short. I swear I'll update sooner, and with a longer chapter. Please review and tell me exactly what you're thinking about this story. Really, it is the reviews that keep me going. Thanks for reading! 


	9. Chapter Nine

O Rose Thou Art Sick

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A/n: I'm sorry for the slow update. I really am. School's started again, and I've been busy. Here we go. Once again, thanks so much for the reviews… they really do keep me writing. Keep them coming with lots of constructive criticism- even if I don't end up taking your advice, know I do take it into account. 

Disclaimer: I do not own RENT; Jonathan Larson does. I do not own the poem The Sick Rose; William Blake does. I do not own the poem Because I Could Not Stop For Death; Emily Dickinson does.

_

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_

Chapter Nine: We Passed

* * *

_We passed the School, where Children strove_

_At Recess- in the Ring-_

_-from Because I Could Not Stop For Death, Emily Dickinson_

Mark rode back to the Loft, his visit to the graveyard, making him more alert, more aware, more alive. Even though his friends were dead, being in their presence made Mark feel more alive.

He felt awake now; he didn't feel like his brain had been put in a blender and then stuck back in his head. He had yet to cough, and, for the first time in a long time, he felt happy.

It was slightly strange, the happy feeling within him; he was all alone, three of his best friends dead, others dying. Living with no food, no friends and no heat. And yet he felt happy. Mark felt. He felt happy.

He felt because he knew. He knew that even though they weren't there, he had people who cared for him. People cared. People loved. People loved him.

Mark's facial muscles twitched a little, then stretched, doing something extremely unfamiliar to Mark, working themselves in ways they hadn't in a long, long time.

A smile.

Mark was smiling. Grinning, even. He was alive, with people to love him in the greatest city in the whole world. Mark grinned broadly. He felt. He felt happy.

"What the fuck you smilin' about?" shouted a homeless person who was watching him.

Mark didn't speak, but he thought his reply: 'Life'. He was smiling about life.

For the first time in months instead of simply glancing about him as he rode, Mark looked. Truly looked, his eyes drinking in everything. The buildings, the cars zooming past, the trash, the people. The people. Mark stared at the people, awed by the variety.

Suddenly, a sandy haired man turned around, and Mark nearly smacked into a car in surprise.

Fuck.

It was Roger.

How? Roger was, Roger was…

Roger was dead.

And yet there were Roger's eyes, staring at him, a thin smile playing on his lips.

Shit, what kind of nightmare was Mark in? He glanced around, looking for Angel or Mimi, maybe Steve or someone. If the dead were coming back, why weren't there more of them? If Mark's fevered mind was bringing back the dead, why wasn't it allowing Mimi or Angel?

Mark looked back at Roger.

Fuck.

Roger was gone.

Holy shit. His mind was really fucked up.

Roger had been there, and then he was gone.

Holy fucking hell.

Mark coughed again, his mind swimming. He felt nauseous and confused.

How the shit had that happened?

Something was not right…

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A/n: Yeah. That's it. Yay. Sorry, I'm tired, and I need to get back to writing. Leave me a review? I'd love you forever… 


	10. Chapter Ten

O Rose Thou Art Sick

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A/n: So… yay. I was prompted to update because I'm bored and I realized I needed to update, or this story will extend longer than a year in terms of writing/posting. And we can't really have that, heh, so… here we go. Once again, thank you for all the reviews, and please continue reviewing, 'cause… they keep me writing! 

Disclaimer: I do not own RENT; Jonathan Larson does. I do not own the poem The Sick Rose; William Blake does. I do not own the poem Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines; Pablo Neruda does.

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Chapter Ten: Tonight I can write the saddest lines, pt. Two

_

* * *

_

_Tonight I can write the saddest lines._

_To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her._

_-from Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines, Pablo Neruda_

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Roger ran, his legs burning. Where could his roommate be? Mark hadn't been anywhere Roger had checked, and no one recognized him. Where could the filmmaker be? 

Roger's gut twisted, and he panted shallowly. He knew for certain that if Mark was dead, he'd never forgive himself. He would feel guilty for the rest of his life; and without Mark, Roger wasn't sure how long that life would be. Not that he'd commit suicide or anything, but…

Fuck. He cared about Mark, had always cared, although he didn't always shot it. When April had been alive, and especially when he'd been going through withdrawal, Roger knew he hadn't always shown he cared.

He was regretting it now.

Of course, he knew Mark knew. There was no doubt about that. They'd talked about it on occasion. But Roger felt that actions spoke louder than words, and if actions meant anything, it looked like he barely cared at all. And his roommate didn't deserve that.

Fuck. Roger's roommate deserved no less than a Hollywood contract, a billion dollars, a mansion and twenty hot girls just for everything he'd done for Roger alone. And what he did for everyone else… well, Roger knew that without Mark, the family they had now would be non-existent. Roger would have never gone after Mimi, Collins probably wouldn't have come home without Mark's promptings and never met Angel, and even if Joanne and Maureen had met, none of Maureen's protests would have gotten off the ground. None of them would be anywhere without Mark- Roger would probably be dead, either from AIDS for from a drug overdose from being with April. All the Bohemians owed their lives to Mark.

Roger bit his lip. They owed Mark so much, and yet they couldn't find him! They'd searched all day, Roger's legs were tired, he was exhausted, and yet they still couldn't find him.

"Excuse me, sir," Roger said, stopping a person on the street for the millionth time. He rattled off Marks' description, and yet the knot in the pit of his stomach twisted and turned as no light bulb of recognition went off in the man's face. "Well, thanks anyway." He hurried off again.

Roger decided to double-check some of the bars Mark had gone to back when he and Roger would go out. Roger cut through an alley, running along. Then, suddenly, he saw someone lying on the ground.

At first, Roger thought it was just another homeless person. But there was a bike lying across the body, and then Roger's eyes caught a piece of familiar material poking out from underneath.

A scarf.

Mark's scarf.

Fuck.

Roger hurried over. It was indeed Mark, his scrawny body draped over the ground, his eyes closed. A small gash on his head told Roger he'd either crashed or had been hit, and from the look of things, the way Mark had his arms wrapped protectively around his camera, pressing it to his chest, Roger suspected the latter. He knelt next to his friend, and placed a cold hand to Mark's forehead.

"Shit," he murmured. Even though his hands were cold, he could tell Mark was burning up. Roger looked around, trying to see if there was anyway he could get to a pay phone to call Benny so Benny could get the car, but he wasn't sure if Mark had enough time. Instead, he picked Mark up, and carried him.

Mark made a sort of groaning noise, and Roger paused for a moment. It would look incredibly stupid if he just walked around with Mark's frail body draped around his shoulders. Be he had no other way to carry his friend.

Then, Roger saw a subway station, and he grinned. He knew how he was going to get Mark to a hospital.

He heaved his friend onto a subway, then checked to make sure he was going to where he wanted to go. Three stops until the hospital. Maybe fifteen minutes.

Roger knew those were going to be the longest fifteen minutes of his life…

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A/n: Heh. I know it's clichéd, I'm sorry. I don't actually live in New York, so I made this all up. Deal with it. Thank you. And please review! 


	11. Chapter Eleven

O Rose Thou Art Sick

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A/n: WOW! TWO updates in a SINGLE MONTH? Well, yes. Because next month, there (hopefully) will be no updates, seeing as I'm giving National Novel Writing Month a shot. 50,000 words in 30 days… should be FUN! So… yeah. Also? This is the chapter of repetitiveness. Enjoy, please!

Disclaimer: I do not own RENT; Jonathan Larson does. I do not own the poem The Sick Rose; William Blake does. I do not own the poem Because I Could Not Stop for Death; Emily Dickinson does.

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Chapter Eleven: We Passed the Fields of Grazing Grain

_We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain-_

_We passed the Setting Sun-_

_-excerpt from 'Because I Could Not Stop For Death', Emily Dickinson_

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Mark shifted a little in his sleep, a bizarre dream flickering through his head like one of his films; scenes he knew couldn't be true, and yet they seemed so real.

Roger. He saw Roger. Roger, his best friend, Roger Davis. Roger. Mark saw Roger in his dreams.

Roger was dead.

Roger was dead, and yet he was there, standing before Mark, who lay pitifully on the ground, unable to move, to speak. Roger. Mark's best friend. Roger Davis. Dead Roger. Dead Roger who had come back to life.

Mark tried to move, to get up, but he couldn't. He was cold and he couldn't seem to get his mind to communicate with his muscles. He simply lay there, frozen, with his dead best friend standing before him.

Roger knelt, and Mark firmly told his brain to react, to cry out, to reach for his friend. Nothing responded. Roger's face looked achingly familiar, making Mark want to scream. His dead friend was alive, and he hadn't changed a bit.

Roger reached out a hand at Mark, and Mark wanted so badly to reach out his own hand, wanted all of this to be real. But then, Mark opened his eyes, and he awoke to the cold, harsh reality.

He lay in his bed, the bed with no sheets on it, the mattress relatively warm with the body heat it had sapped from Mark.

Another day. Another empty, cold, lonely day. Another day without heat. Another day without warmth. Another day without his friends. Another day without love.

Mark let out a long, slow breath. He was alone, without his friends, without anything. Another day alone with his camera.

His camera. Film. A sort of half-grin, half-grimace crossed Mark's face. His mission. Life for the dead. It would continue. Another day of filming, another day would be gone. Gone, but not wasted. Never wasted. Mark hadn't wasted a day since his best friend's girlfriend had killed herself, and Mark had discovered he had another HIV+ friend.

They had known for a while about Collins, but seeing as the anarchist was rarely around, they hadn't had to worry much. But with Roger, it was different. Roger's girlfriend had killed herself rather than face what she and Roger had, and Roger was going to begin his withdrawal as soon as possible. Collins had left, leaving Mark alone with his roommate. Mark hadn't wasted a day.

Mark tried to raise his head, moving slowly so as not to pass out like he had before, moving too quickly. He didn't shift, however.

Instead, Mark coughed.

Shit.

The coughs started again, wracking the filmmaker's slight body violently, making him shake with their fury. He coughed and coughed and coughed, the hacking filling the room and swirling around Mark's head like little fruit flies.

Mark coughed and coughed for what seemed to him like hours. Then, he stopped.

He felt light-headed and woozy, like he's spun around a million times as fast as he could. It was getting to be too much; he could feel a slight tickle at the back of his throat.

Mark managed to get his head over the side of the mattress before the vomiting began. It poured out of his mouth like a waterfall of bile, splattering on the ground like massive raindrops. Mark heaved and gagged, the vomit piling up on his floor.

Finally, the last bit of vomit drained from his mouth. He moaned as he moved back onto the mattress, knowing he should get up and clean himself off, but too exhausted to care. His eyes fluttered close, and Mark Cohen slipped again into his feverish dreams.

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A/n: Yeah. That was it. Please review! I'll post next month (December, not November,) if all goes well. Thanks so much for reading this far. 


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